


The Besotted Breathe Deeply

by Chancy_Lurking



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fear, Gen, Hugs, Hurt/Comfort, Love Confessions, M/M, Minor Violence, Post Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-02
Updated: 2013-04-02
Packaged: 2017-12-07 06:14:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,767
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/745224
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chancy_Lurking/pseuds/Chancy_Lurking
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’d taken John a little over a year to be able to go back into the flat – which Mrs. Hudson had graciously not rented out – without his hands shaking… In contrast, the second Sherlock sets his sights on it, his whole body quakes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Besotted Breathe Deeply

It’d been nearly three years since Sherlock Holmes had last walked down Baker’s Street and he found the task significantly more tedious than he recollected. With every step it seemed his legs got weaker and the ache in his chest threatened to rip him apart to nothing. Even as he consciously, quietly chanted repeatedly “ _It’s over, it’s done, they’re safe now, it’s fine, it’s all fine_ ”, he couldn’t quite force his hands to be still. His whole body was shaking, partly (mostly) with emotions he didn’t quite know how to deal with and partly because he’d been awake for going on forty-eight hours.

He just torn down the last of Moriarty’s web and spent a good half hour scrubbing the remnants off his body so they’d let him through customs. He’d been exhausted then, but unable to rest – mind alight with more fervor than his usual insomnia. He’d wanted to get home _right that bloody-(no-pun-intended)-second_ ; he had three years worth of apologizing to do.

Hours later, he stopped in front of the door to his old flat, and cursed his limbs for trembling. He knew, with no uncertainty, that he was about to upset the inhabitant’s newly placid lives all over again. He also knew, with even less uncertainty, that there wasn’t a force in the world short of death itself that would keep him away any longer. He closed his eyes and gripped the knob.

~

It’d taken John a little over a year to be able to go back into flat – which Mrs. Hudson had graciously not rented or even _cleaned_ out – without his hands shaking. At first he’d been perfectly intent to never go back; not until Sherlock returned, because he _would_ return. But then life in his own flat felt empty and his brief stent with Mary fell apart with startling thoroughness… She’d told him, quite bluntly, that she knew he loved her but would not lose center stage to a dead man. John had not heard from her since the night she asked him to leave, nor had she heard from him.

His life wound up in a cozy little rut, from that point on. There were times when he’d be swamped by an abrupt onset of seer… _unpleasantness_ that would keep him in a slump for days, but those were becoming routine and he’d learned to live around them. He worked doubles at the clinic, occasionally went down to see Molly (because seeing Lestrade and _fucking Donovan_ after all was said and done was still a little arduous) or out to drink with his friends from the service, and still came home for dinner with Mrs. Hudson most every night.

“Is there enough to share with your dear landlady this evening, love?”

John laughed, turning from the stove to look at her, “Of course, Mrs. Hudson! No hot date tonight?” He asked, smiling tiredly.

“Oh, no!” She laughed at him, picking up the tray from the tea they’d had that afternoon. She petted his shoulder as she walked back towards the stairs, “You know I only go out when-…” She stopped abruptly in the doorway, the tray she’d been carrying clattering to the ground at her feet.

John poked his head out of the kitchen to look at her, “Mrs. Hudson?”

The only response he got was a shriek as the old woman backed into flat, pointing a trembling finger out the door.

The doctor was already up and armed before she could finish the first scream. He trained the gun down the stairs, “Stay right where you-!!” His entire world ground to a halt as his eyes caught up to his brain. The gun dipped in his hands and his breathing stopped, “… _Sherlock?_ ” He forced.

The man before him was much too pale and much too thin and his hair was cropped short except for a bit that dangled on his forehead, but John would know that face _anywhere_. Those eyes, _those eyes_ , deducing even though they looked so _tired_ he’d know them anywhere and he just, “ _Jesus Christ in Heaven…_ ” His voice sounded far away and small even to his own buzzing ears.

“John,” Sherlock replied, his voice not nearly as sure sounding as it normally would’ve been, “Mrs. Hud-.”

The slap rang out like a gun shot.

Sherlock’s face turned slightly away, his eyes wide and cheek growing pink. He felt slightly sick to his stomach. Not that the woman had hit him, no, he’d deserved that, much more than that, but simply in how _weak_ the strike was. There was no burn or ache behind it, just the initial sting of sudden skin to skin contact… She’d hit nearly as hard as she could and it hardly hurt him at all. In the three years he’d been gone, she’d grown _so much older…_

When he turned back to her and she had covered her mouth in horror. Tears were steadily building in her eyes as John held her gently by the shoulders, “I’m sorry!” She cried.

The shock wore off quickly and Sherlock extended his trembling arms to her. Even though he was always particularly indulgent with her, the offer was almost entirely selfish. He wasn’t normally one for such displays, but he was feeling particularly contact starved and wanted to ground himself in her arms. “It’s ok.” He also (by contrast) felt a deep urge to seriously injure the person who’d made her cry, in spite that said person was himself and that he had done so for her own good. “It’s ok.” He said again and she crashed into him, choking apologizes into his chest, “It’s ok, I’m sorry. I am so, so sorry.” He rested his cheek on her head.

John watched it all silently; his mouth slightly agape as if trying to let whatever was blocking his words escape so he could speak… It continued to choke him off.

The man looked up at him over the top of Mrs. Hudson’s head, “John, I-…”

“Have lost so much weight.” John cut in, swallowing the lump of emotion that was threatening his breathing, “Look at you, you look like you’re going to blow away any moment.”

Sherlock felt Mrs. Hudson shift against him, arms sliding as if she was just noticing herself. He tried to ignore it, “That’s not…”

“We were just about to have dinner.” John limped briskly towards the kitchen, “Join us.”

Sherlock noticed it instantly, “John…”

“Just-!!” John stopped the shout before it could truly become anything. He rubbed the bridge of his nose, “Just sit down with us, Sherlock.” He said softly, “Please.”

Sherlock regarded him carefully. He could sense the man was on the edge of breaking something and decided – for once in his life – to just be compliant. He nodded shortly and let Mrs. Hudson direct him to the kitchen.

It’s quiet as John serves the food, tensely so. John fumbled a bit with loading the plates and sat heavily when he finished. He did it all without ever directly looking at Sherlock.

Mrs. Hudson, however, openly continued glancing at him. His face was gaunt and he had dark rings under his eyes. Speaking of his eyes…

As the dinner progressed, his eyes got continually more vacant. He ate mechanically, taking miniscule bites and slowly hunching in on himself. She was suddenly aware, as her plate neared empty and his neared half full, that he was falling asleep with his eyes open.

She stood, “Go to bed.” She said hands falling on his shoulders to stir him, “I want to hear from you, you _owe_ us that much, but not while you’re half asleep.” She hesitated a moment, before leaning to kiss the top of his head, “I’ll come up for breakfast, yes?”

Sherlock nodded, staggering to his feet as she departed. He looked at John for direction.

John shook his head, “None of your things have been moved.” The words wavered in his mouth as he realized how very unhealthy that was, “If you want a shower you can use my so-…”

“I showered before I came.”

John knew better than to ask why; he nodded, standing, “You know where to find me.”

The brunette nodded at him, turning towards his room. He looked over his shoulder vaguely, “John, I really am-…”

“ _Goodnight_ , Sherlock.”

“…Goodnight, John.”

Sherlock was asleep (soundly and peacefully, for the first time in _years_ ) the moment he hit the mattress.

John had no such luck.

He retreated to his bedroom, but found himself even more unsettled. The sheets felt restraining and the sound of his own breathing (not to mention the sound of his heart beating in his ears) was enough to rattle his already frayed nerves. He was trying to keep it together, but there were too many emotions clenching and unclenching his stomach as the rolled over themselves in his head. He was nearly sick with relief; Sherlock was _alive_. After three years of grieving, his best friend was back and alive and… John couldn’t fight the fear, the question that had instantly risen in the back of his mind as soon as he recognized Sherlock.

_What if Sherlock coming back actually just-…?_

He was up and out of bed, clinching his eyes shut to fight a wave a nausea and a cold sweat. Sleep was not going to happen. He could see the nightmares already – the falling and the blood and hospitals _for himself_ – and had no interest in dealing with that right now. He walked into the living room, blinking into the darkness.

He considered the television for a second before thinking he would find the noise grating… Then Sherlock’s violin caught his eye.

It’d sort of become his crutch over time. He took it out of the case fairly regularly, usually late at night, because it made him feel that much closer to Sherlock… Very codependent, he thought, but damned if he was going to ever willingly give up another piece of the life he lost, even if he’d just gotten it back…

He took the violin to his chair, leaving the bow behind, and held it gently in his lap. He looked down as it reflected the moonlight mutely. He plucked a note softly with his thumb, and even though he knows it’s most likely grossly out of tune – what, after going nearly three years without a proper player – but the note calmed him, as they often did on late nights. He leans back, staring at the ceiling plucking random notes and willing himself to stop thinking and _relax_.

“You’re holding it backwards.”

John jumped with the voice flowed smoothly, if slightly sleep-clogged into the room. He looked up guiltily, “Oh.” He said softly, glancing back down at the instrument. He flipped it around so the neck rested in his left palm and let his gaze linger on it vacantly. Sherlock could almost physically see the doctor trying to sort his thoughts out. There was uncertainty in the blonde’s manner that was deeper than just the unfamiliarity with the violin. He was hunched over slightly, tense in a way that one might see in someone who thought they might be struck…

That baffled Sherlock. He’d only ever hit John once, and even then it hadn’t been vindictive. He couldn’t think of any reason why John would think he was going to strike-… A thought occurred to him then, niggling and uncomfortable at the back of his mind.

“John…” He said, quietly.

When the doctor looked up at him, he saw it. The man wasn’t afraid of a physical blow, or even an emotional one, not really. He was afraid that this, that Sherlock coming home, that the biggest missing piece of his life falling back into place was all an illusion. The blow he was so afraid of would be realizing that Sherlock _wasn’t_ actually there… that grief had finally gotten the better of his mind and he’d lost the control he’d fought so hard to keep.

“Sorry,” John whispered finally, placing the instrument back in its case, pointedly avoiding Sherlock’s gaze, “Didn’t mean to wake you.”

Suddenly, Sherlock became acutely aware that he was shaking again. It killed him, it literally _killed_ him that he’d given John yet another reason to distrust his own mind. The contact starvation rushed back to the forefront of his mind and amplified in thinking that John must have felt it, too. It somehow made the hollow feeling in his chest worse to think that John’s had been self inflicted. The doctor was a wonderful man, a wonderful, _lovely_ man, and without Sherlock around to ruin his relationships, he could’ve… he _should’ve_ …

“ _John_.” And if Sherlock thought his voice sounded a little broken, that’s because it did.

That got John’s attention. He frowned when he noticed the shaking, “Sherlock, really, you get some more res-…”

“I have an experiment to conduct.”

“Oh, for Heaven’s sake, it’s nearing 4am and you’ve only just gotten back, can’t it wai-…”

But Sherlock had already crossed the room and collapsed into his lap. Slender arms wrapped around everywhere he could reach as he buried his face in John’s neck, lingering in the smell he hadn’t been aware he’d missed so much, “ _I’m back_.” He said, waveringly, “I’m right here, John, I’m _back_.”

It took John a frightening and tense moment to react but when he did it was violent. He returned the hug with nearly all his strength; relief manifested itself in brute force as he pressed his face into Sherlock’s shoulder.

 He shuddered in the brunette’s arms, choking out something that could’ve been words but was too drowned in emotion and tears to be coherent. It was little more than a wrecked noise, a desperate representation of all the feelings he couldn’t yet voice, but Sherlock understood it nonetheless. He closed his eyes, pushing himself tighter against the doctor, trying to force the trembling and agony from their bodies with utter closeness.

John stood then and they stumbled backwards as they got better grips and just clung to each other, “I can’t let you go.” He choked into Sherlock’s night shirt, “Not yet, Sherlock, not-…”

“Never.” Sherlock responded, his hands roaming, clutching, _pulling_ , before finally settling in John’s hair. He kissed him chastely then, hardly even aware he’d done it. He leaned away and rested his forehead against John’s as the doctor gripped his back, “Not ever again.”

Neither of them was sure who started it, but after a moment they were both stumbling towards Sherlock’s bedroom; near blind and entirely uncoordinated. There were words said between them, softly and without thought, that salved their frayed nerves even further than their embrace.

When the back of Sherlock’s knees hit the bed, he fell over easily and took John with him, intent to stay right in the man’s arms. So he was slightly startled when said man reached and trapped his wrists out to the sides.

“John?”

He found himself pinned under a pained gaze, “I checked your _pulse_.”

Sherlock’s breath caught and a mysterious ache started in his throat, “…Yes.” He said simply.

The blonde searched him for a minute, before nodding shortly. Now was not the time for explanations. He sat back off of Sherlock and the detective’s hand shot out before he could even get arms length away, “John-!!”

“Hush, now.” John said, pulling the duvet back and sliding under.

Sherlock felt silly now, but still couldn’t quite convince himself to let go until he followed was pulled into John’s open arms, tucked securely against his chest. He felt safer than he had in a very, very long time.

“I’m afraid,” John began, “That somewhere in the middle of… everything…” His hold on the detective tightened slightly, “I’ve fallen in love… with you.”

The words terrified them; heavy and honest in the space above the bed and in their quickened heart beats they could both feel them radiating chest to chest. The words had been living a quiet drowning pool from nearly the moment they’d met, that they both had done their best to carefully skirt around. But now they had just been turned into a very real monster, unleashed with the potential to kill them both.

Sherlock nodded, swallowing several times before he could speak, “I’ll only ruin you, John.” He forced out softly.

John ducked his head to kiss Sherlock’s hair, “Only if you ever leave again.” He admitted quietly.

“I’d take you with me.”

“…That’d be just fine, love.”

 

_“For the two of us, home isn’t a place. It’s a person. And we are finally home.” – Stephanie Perkins_

**Author's Note:**

> Questions/Comments/Concerns/Critiques are always appreciated! Thanks for reading! :)


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